the clacking of the keys becomes our apocalypse
by hyacinthian
Summary: They're not going to change the world. They're not Bonnie and Clyde. Post- Patient X. KrycekMarita.


_Someday, they'll go down together_

_They'll bury them side by side_

_To a few, it'll be grief_

_To the law, a relief_

_But it's death for Bonnie and Clyde._

It was stupid of them to think that it could be done. What were they thinking of? They could not have been the next Bonnie and Clyde – this was bigger than bank robbing, bigger than just cops and federal marshals. They're running from the _government_, from _them_, that big pronoun that reeks of conspiracy and grayscale, running from nothing and everything. There is nowhere to run and everywhere to go – they are always stuck. Bound to their roles, to their duties.

But he hoists her up against the wall anyway. She wraps her legs around his waist and he mumbles words along her neck as they try and convince themselves that this will work. They have tricked the gods, in a way, the Lokis that dangle above the clouds and control everything below. She wonders if their suits crinkle – she imagines their foreheads did.

They kiss like they fight – passionately, wordlessly, violently. He smears her lipstick and she bites his lip. When she leads him off to the room, she knows what will happen. She is orchestrating now, seizing the reins. He lies just as well as she does, and he is just as romantic as she is – they just have been burned too badly too often and they like to pretend they're stronger than they are. She supposes he thinks himself to be some sort of Rick Blaine, always up for the highest bidder, but she knows that he's helped Mulder when there was more risk to him than benefit and he's kissed her more than he's fucked other women.

Maybe she's just projecting. Her therapist made a mention of that in their last session.

But she is in New York and he is transient with a bit of Russian in him always. But as she bites down on his bare shoulder and he rips at her suit, reaching for the bare skin of her hip, she thinks they speak the same language. It's not Russian or English – it's desperation. Apocalyptic, almost. They're the ones who manipulate, but are constantly being manipulated by _them_, the others. She wishes she could be as noble as Mulder and Scully (Alex calls them stupid, though she'd like to think she knows him better), but she can't afford to be noble. There's too much at stake and she'd like to think that they can do more by moving gears on the inside, like Jean Valjean or some such, though she never did quite like Victor Hugo.

Even if it didn't work, she can always save herself.

Not like the Mulders, like Mulder's father, who was just as noble, just as _stupid_, who ended up getting himself killed. She doesn't want to become a martyr. She just wants to survive as a full human – no hybridization, no black oil, nothing alien.

She drags him to what looks like a clean bed, pulls him down on top of her, runs a hand through his hair. She tries not to stop kissing him; she needs it, needs him, needs the memory of something that will prove to be far too evanescent. She licks her lips when he distracts himself with her breasts, but he doesn't linger. He pushes into her soon after, and she groans. He digs his nails into her hipbone as he moves against her, grunting.

"_Kukla_," he calls her. She is his little doll, like some twisted V.C. Andrews marker of affection. But he is twisted – gnarled and raw on the inside just as she is, only they never talk about it. They never say anything about where they came from or who they are – they are nobodies, they are just tools and they'll use themselves as well as everyone else. She wonders how she became so fucked up without even realizing it. "I love you," he murmurs, and she holds her breath.

"Alex," she hisses against his flesh and it is like a prayer, a mantra to save her from the pits of hell. Except he is the demon who is dragging her there in the first place.

When he comes, he collapses against her and pulls out, rolling onto his back. He pants and closes his eyes. She can feel his heartbeat slowing, feel his breathing even out; she feels his peace while her own heart beats unevenly in her chest.

When she knows he is asleep, she stands, shuffles to get enough clothing on to look decent in the middle of _wherever the hell they are_. She heads back out in the hallway to get Dmitri. This is wrong of her, but she's lied to herself often enough to be so _damned fantastic _at lying to other people. Even him. (She figures they're even, she knows he's never been truly honest with her.)

"_Tot, kto sidit mezhdu dvumya stul'yami mozhyet legko padat_'," she whispers to him. (The one who sits between two chairs can easily fall.) "You've chosen your side, and I've chosen mine." They are not and will never be a Shakespeare play. There is no love (save their fucked up, diluted version), only tragedy – and the only players on the stage are the aliens and the Syndicate, and if they're the ones running the show (they are), then the world is truly fucked.

She grabs Dmitri, whispers something to him. "I'm sorry, Alex," she whispers to nobody in particular. But she's not.

They've damned themselves long before this.


End file.
